


Newton's Third

by FelOllie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Coda, Dean Winchester Feels, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s14e03 The Scar, I just felt the need to state it for the record, I know you know that, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Michael is a dick, Sex in the Impala, descriptions of drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelOllie/pseuds/FelOllie
Summary: “How can I be running from something when I’m racing toward it?”“I dunno -- kinda your thing.”Thanks for the call out, little brother.





	Newton's Third

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, fam!
> 
> So, I haven't been able to finish a fic in about 6 years. This damn thing wouldn't leave me alone and I am so glad it was more stubborn than I am. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated, obviously, but it feels amazing to even be writing again so, either way, I am an ecstatic girl and I love everybody in this bar.
> 
> (As always, if you need me to tag/warn for anything I haven't already, _please please please_ let me know.)

He can’t stop thinking about it.

_“How can I be running from something when I’m racing toward it?”_

Even as the words left his own mouth, flying down the highway toward Jody and what could be the key to putting Michael down for good, Dean knew what Sam’s response would be. After all, Sam knows him better than he does most days, and visa versa. From the broken, twisted parts to the fractures of light that somehow manage to cling to their own existence. 

Of course Sam would see this too.

_“I dunno -- kinda your thing.”_

The entire conversation was predictable, right down to the “very funny, now shut your damn mouth” way Dean said “okay” in response to his brother’s dig. The whole friggin thing couldn’t possibly have been less surprising, even if Dean had written it himself.

And still, he can’t stop thinking about it.

The simple declaration keeps grating at him, bubbling anger up to fill the cavern behind his ribs. No matter what he does, Dean can’t stop fixating on Sam’s passive-aggressive, though well-intended, jab. 

He can’t know he struck an exposed nerve with it -- Dean hasn’t given him enough to formulate that conclusion yet -- but strike that bad boy he did. 

Fucking Michael.

Sam and Dean got back to the bunker almost a day ago, and the completely predictable conversation with Sam has been running around the inside of Dean’s skull on a loop with pretty aggravating persistence ever since. It stomps through his head, shocking other thoughts awake, slowly driving Dean insane. It’s a long, winding road through his memories and the feelings associated with each one, but the conversation seems to get some sick satisfaction out of pestering him. 

Dean might be projecting a little.

(The beard is weird, he stands by it.)

It isn’t until the conversation brushes up against a particular set of memories, though, that Dean finally begins to understand why Sam’s words struck such an intense chord inside him.

The first memory to trigger the onslaught is the memory of Cas coming down the War Room steps, welcoming Dean home with liquescent eyes that radiated affection and his warm, gravelly voice, saying his name in that way he does. 

It’s then that the conversation with Sam burrows in and lays roots. 

It feeds on the memory of Cas’ tiny exhalation -- barely a gasp when he realized Dean was really Dean again -- the answering wave of longing that crashed through Dean so hard it almost leveled him, and sprouts. It’s watered by the memory of Cas inside his head, the trust Dean has in his Angel to see everything and stay, and it full-on blooms.

Sam planted the seed, but Dean’s own mind is playing gardener. He doesn’t know what to do with it all, what any of it means -- if anything -- but it doesn’t seem to need his active participation. It just keeps growing.

Dean even tried jogging -- _jogging_ , for fuck’s sake -- and he still can’t get out from under it. 

“Dean?”

His neck cracks with how fast he looks up. Cas is lingering at the edge of the kitchen, hesitant to leave the bottom step and actually enter the room. His coat is missing, the neatly pressed sleeves of his white button-up meticulously rolled up to mid-forearm. 

Dean fidgets with the cap to his water bottle and forces more wattage into his smile.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he says, falsely bright, “Give me ten and I’ll get started on breakfast.”

Cas opens his mouth to speak, but closes it almost as fast. He takes a deep breath before he tries again, “Dean, you don’t--”

“I actually kind of missed it,” Dean interrupts. 

He isn’t trying to be a dick, he just can’t take the gentle note of Cas’ voice right now. It makes his chest hurt like he’s been mule-kicked, and it reminds him of being submerged while Michael was manning the ship, which conjures fragments of Michael taunting Dean when he wasn’t actively attempting to drown him, and it’s all way too much, far too soon.

“I know I bitch about cooking for you guys all the time,” Dean barrels on, capping his water and setting it on the island behind him. It tips over, but he leaves it. “But it was… It was one of the things I thought about while I was…”

Cas’ expression melts, going all gooey and warm but laced with sympathy, and Dean immediately retreats.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he says, already moving for the door. “Ask Sam what he wants when he comes in, will you?”

Since escape is his main focus, he doesn’t realize until he’s already there that leaving the kitchen means brushing right by Cas, which might have been a mistake.

“Dean, wait,” Cas reaches for him, catching him by the crook of his arm. 

His fingertips grip bare skin and when Dean looks down, his stomach drops.

When he looks up again, Cas’ eyes have softness lingering in their depths that Dean can’t look away from. But there’s hesitancy there too, and that has alarm bells ringing in his ears. Cas shifts his gaze away for a beat, but then it returns and brings with it a new determination.

“The others have already eaten.”

It’s a such a small thing, miniscule in the grand scheme of things, but it cuts.

“Oh.”

He knows it’s stupid to be upset that he doesn’t actually have to cook for a crowd, but disappointment rolls through him like a fog. He wasn’t lying when he said he thought about being back in the kitchen while Michael held him under. Cooking for the hunters, for Sam and Jack and Mom and sometimes Cas, the memories of it were some of his go-to things to focus on when he was drowning. It kept him from letting himself sink. Now, he’s so close to having just a grain of that normalcy back in his life, and it stings to see it slip through his fingers.

Cas’ brows dip down in the middle, like he understands why it hurts. He probably does, come to think of it. Cas was possessed by Lucifer, who was literally evil incarnate; he has to know what it’s like to crave something from before.

“Less work for me, I guess,” Dean shrugs, shooting for careless. He shakes Cas’ hand loose with the movement and immediately regrets the loss, but grits his teeth against it.

“They wanted to give you your space, I think,” Cas tells him, his head tilting as he considers. “Almost everyone has cleared out of the bunker, save for Jack and Sam.”

Dean adds, “And us,” before he’s thought about it. 

Cas smiles. 

“And us,” he agrees, voice warm and indulgent. “I would imagine, though, that Sam and Jack would still be more than pleased to have you prepare breakfast for them.”

Dean lets a out a breath, relieved despite himself.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling genuinely and patting his own stomach, “And I still feel like I could eat a horse.”

Frowning, Cas narrows eyes at him, “Horses are majestic creatures, Dean. Why would you--”

Dean laughs. It’s loud and brash in the slightly-echoey kitchen, but it rumbles right out of him.

“I’m not gonna eat a horse, Cas,” he promises. “I was thinking pancakes.”

Cas nods, clearly reassured. 

 

***

 

The only spaces in the bunker that remain mostly untouched by the other world hunters are, maybe unsurprisingly, Dean’s bedroom and his cave. He frequents them both more than he probably should, but having a full house is new to him. It was just him and Sammy for most of their lives, even before Dad took the permanent dirt nap; an adjustment period should be expected. 

Compound that with the stupid conversation still chipping away at his brain and his brand spanking new Michael-trauma, and isolation was always going to be the outcome. Honestly, Dean’s so grateful to be alone in his head again, he can’t bring himself to feel guilty for savoring the solitude.

It’s been two days and everything is still undulating just under the surface of his skin. Being home, slipping back into some semblance of a routine -- it helped. But there’s too much warring inside him for Dean to find even a modicum of peace when he’s alone, much less when surrounded by hunters he barely knows.

He’s in his bedroom again, hiding from… Well, pretty much everybody. Even Sam’s attempts at surreptitious worried glances have begun to feel like sandpaper being dragged along Dean’s skin. So, he’s holed up in his bedroom with a bottle of whiskey, his headphones, and far too much to think about. He stares up at the ceiling, wallowing in the thoughts that press in around him from all sides.

Sam’s voice manages to rise above the discord.

_“I dunno -- kinda your thing.”_

Dean wishes he could have told Sam that he was wrong, but even he isn’t deluded enough to believe it. His kid brother managed to encapsulate Dean’s entire approach to the things that scare him without breaking a sweat. 

Even Michael saw straight through Dean’s bravado. Point of fact, it was one of the dick’s favorite pastimes -- taunting Dean with reflections of his own soul, making him peer into the abyss and confront the things he’d hidden there.

Michael used whatever ammunition he could lay his grubby little hands on. From Dean’s daddy issues and the neurosis spidering out from them, to his tendency to aggressively shove away the things he wants closest, Michael had a veritable stockpile of weapons from which to select.

Fear was, rather inevitably, most often his weapon of choice.

When Dean feels fear, he rebels against it. He fights back with rage and aggression, all the while barreling head-first into whatever it is that scares him. 

_Overcompensating_ , Michael had taunted.

It’s always been eerily magnetic, the way Dean’s pulled toward the things that terrify him the most; like he can’t help but leap right into the center of the chaos. Barreling into fear is something he just does, without hesitation or thought. It has always simply been who Dean is. 

To Michael, however, it all came down to John Winchester. 

Dean’s hero. His abuser.

Two seemingly dichotomous concepts, and yet they are inextricably entwined in Dean’s psyche. 

So much so that Dean adopted the core traits of Newton’s Third Law as basic principles of his personality. 

_For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction._

If fear is the action, Dean’s instinct to race right toward it is only equaled by his desire to get as far away from it as possible. He is, without a doubt, a walking contradiction. He’s scared, and he’s ripping himself in half trying to confront it while simultaneously bolting in the antithetical direction.

Dean would be embarrassed if Michael hadn’t stomped it out of him while he reigned supreme in his noggin. The Archangel knew too well how to wield that particular blade -- just where to cut to find the really juicy bits. He poked and prodded at Dean’s soft spot for Cas, especially. It bled the most when sliced into, so it obviously became a fast favorite.

_Your father would be so disappointed, Winchester._

Dean was ashamed of the way he felt for his Angel, in some deeply repressed part of his soul. Shame led to fear, which led to anger, which ultimately led to Dean hurtling toward Cas like a comet through space.

And that had sort of been Sam’s point, hadn’t it? Maybe not his Thing with Cas specifically, but he got the gist of it right.

The terror Dean lived in while Michael ran the show still lingers. It’s more intense now, maybe. Different, but no less frightening for it. 

Thing of it is, Sam is focusing on the wrong angel. He’s not wrong, exactly, he’s just working with only part of the story. And though Michael’s possession might be the freshest trauma on Dean’s smorgeous board, he isn’t the one currently causing him the most trouble. 

Michael isn’t the only angel that scares him. 

He isn’t even the angel that scares Dean the most.

Castiel terrifies him in ways he can’t explain. Or, maybe he could if he wasn’t so busy refusing to acknowledge why. Michael makes Dean fear for his life, for the lives of everyone he loves and those of the people he doesn’t, but Cas… 

Cas makes him fearful, both for and of himself.

Dean doesn’t know how to be what he thinks Cas needs him to be. He doesn’t know how to let himself admit that what he feels for Cas is real. He can’t even begin to fathom how to be with Cas and still be the man, the hunter his father raised him to be. Perhaps most worryingly, Dean doesn’t know what he would do to protect something like what he and Cas could have, what lengths he would go to to keep it, and just starting down that path is enough to make his palms sweat.

Dean already knows he would burn the world to ash for Sam; he thinks he would rip the universe apart at the seams for Cas too, and to allow someone else to mean so much…

Swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, Dean shoves himself up from the mattress and paces around his bedroom floor, the Black Sabbath in his ears not enough to drown out the way his heartbeat pounds against his eardrums. 

The walls are just beginning to close in on him when he feels more than he hears the knock on his door. With a frown, Dean pulls his headphones down around his neck and goes to open it. Cas stands on the other side, fully dressed despite it being nearly midnight. He’s got the green Coleman in one hand and a duffle bag in the other, a small, hesitant smile curling his lips.

Dean’s lungs feel like they’re gonna collapse.

“Is this a bad time?” Cas asks, head cocked to one side, like he knows.

Dean shakes his head and pulls the door wider, gesturing for Cas to come in. “What’s up?” he asks, pivoting around to drop his headphones and walkman down onto the bed, sucking in a few calming breaths while he’s got the chance.

Cas hesitates, enough that Dean notices, but says, “I thought perhaps you would care to accompany me.”

Dean turns back to face him, hiking one eyebrow in question. “Where we headed, Cas?”

His smile widens. He brandishes the cooler in Dean’s direction, letting the sound of glass and ice sloshing around fill the room.

“We widened our perimeters a few weeks ago,” Cas says, “and while out scouting, Jack and Wendy discovered a body of water several miles West of here. It is set quite deeply into the forest, and I thought... “

Dean’s heart clenches at the almost shy smile his Angel wears, but his stomach rolls and his lungs burn at the mere thought of going anywhere near standing water. His daily showers are suitable enough as an exercise in exposure therapy for the time being.

“You want to go check it out?” he asks anyway.

With a dip of his chin, Cas says, “The pond is located in a large clearing of Evergreens, well away from any light pollution. I know that the bunker has felt somewhat crowded since your return,” Dean snorts inelegantly, but Cas ignores him, “and had hoped that the space would help to alleviate some of your discomfort.”

Dean would rather be anywhere else in the world than be near a puddle, much less a pond right now. He’s also kinda terrified to be alone with Cas right now, which of course makes him want to get a truly obscene deal closer, so who honestly knows what his brain is doing.

He’s agreeing before he can stop himself.

The way Cas radiates pleasure makes it worth it.

 

***

 

“Turn here,” Cas directs, gesturing to a dirt road carved out in the thick of dark woods lining the side of the highway.

Dean maneuvers Baby over the rough stretch toward the pond, practically holding his breath until they hit level ground again. He parks on a patch of grass far enough away from the water’s edge that they’ll really have to hoof it if they want to get near enough to touch.

Dean’s okay with just looking. For once, he respects the “look with your eyes, not with your hands” lesson Missouri was always trying to teach him.

When Cas leaves the car, Dean swallows thickly but follows.

October air is bracing in Kansas, and Dean flips the collar of his jacket up to ward against it. He waits for Cas on the hood, listening in the stillness of the clearing to the sounds of creaking metal and shuffling fabric.

When Cas reappears at the Impala’s front bumper, he’s carrying the cooler and the duffle bag, but he picked up a thick fleece blanket from somewhere too and has it draped over one arm.

Again, Dean hefts a brow. “What happened to ‘I am impervious to extreme temperatures’?” he asks.

Cas rolls his eyes and sets everything but the blanket down on the ground. “I am,” he says, tone bland, “You, however, are not.”

Dean takes the blanket from him, but tosses it behind him on the hood, so far that it covers some of the windshield. “I’m fine,” he grumbles.

Lifting himself up to perch beside Dean, Cas shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

They sit together for a while, neither of them uttering a single word. The quiet of the clearing isn’t oppressive, like Dean thought it might be. Instead, it’s woven through with sounds of life, in cricket chords and whispering trees. It helps mitigate the rushing in his ears while he glares out at the serene surface of the pond. He can feel its icy fingers trying to reach for him, tearing their way into his lungs and making them seize.

He shivers.

“Shut up,” he says, preemptively.

Dean climbs down to retrieve two beers from the cooler, handing one to Cas before he resumes his place. He thinks he hears Cas mutter something that sounds suspiciously like “stubborn idiot”, but he doesn’t ask.

In the middle of Dean taking a long pull from his bottle, Cas speaks again. 

“I know that you don’t want to discuss it,” he says, “But you should tell someone about your time with Michael.”

Dean swallows his mouthful, though it tastes and feels like sand now. He doesn’t turn to meet Cas’ gaze, just keeps his eyes forward.

“I said I’m fine, Cas,” Dean tries.

It’s Cas’ turn to snort. “You also said you weren’t cold.”

Dean chuckles darkly, using his thumb to wipe at his bottom lip. “I lied,” he admits. “I do that.”

Cas shifts closer on the hood, dragging the blanket up from behind them as he goes. Dean remains stock still while Cas wraps the blanket around his shoulders, letting him dote because he so clearly needs to. When he’s finished, Cas stays close and Dean doesn’t object.

“There,” Cas nods approvingly at his own work. “One less thing to lie about.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He lifts his beer to take another sip, but sets it back down on his thigh before he can.

“I don’t lie to you,” he says.

That, in and of itself, is a lie. They both know it. Dean’s been lying to the pair of them since the moment he laid eyes on Castiel in that barn. 

Cas doesn’t call him on it. Instead, Dean corrects himself.

“I don’t want to lie to you.”

“I know,” Cas says, accepting it instantly. 

The hand he wraps around Dean’s shoulder burns, even through his layers, and Dean can’t help but look him in the eyes then. Those eyes are warm and open, the same emotions glittering there now that were there when Dean got home. 

His heart cracks in his chest.

“You lie when you believe you have to, Dean,” Cas goes on, “I would assume that, by now, you know you do not have to lie to me.”

He does. Of course Dean knows that. But knowing it in theory and knowing it in practice are wildly different things.

“Whatcha got in the duffel, Sunshine?” he asks, averting his gaze and eyeing the brown bag instead.

Cas huffs a little, like he’s going to pick at it some more, but he doesn’t.

“I was unsure how long we would be gone, so I packed a few provisions.”

Curiosity pours through him. Provisions could mean literally anything, but Dean’s mind plummets right into the gutter.

“Provisions?”

“Mmhmm,” Cas hums. “Do you want to go down to the water?”

Dean isn’t sure if he’s more startled by the abrupt shift in topic or the violent reaction he has to it, but he drops his bottle. It smacks off the bumper then lands with a dull thud onto the grass, a fountain of suds exploding from the neck.

“Fuck,” Dean bites. He shucks off the blanket and kneels in front of Baby, inspecting her bumper for damage while he attempts to slow his racing heart. There isn’t so much as a scratch, thankfully, but Dean licks his thumb and rubs gently at the shining chrome in apology.

Cas squats down next to him, so they’re facing each other, nearly nose to nose. 

“Dean.”

He should know better than to look up, but he does. 

Cas is incredibly close. Dean can see the tiny specks of deeper, darker blue in Cas’ irises and the thought that he would willingly drown in those bottomless oceans makes something warm unfurl in his belly. Dean knows color is probably climbing into his cheeks right now, but the smell of lightning and ozone and sunshine is invading his senses and he doesn’t care.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Cas,” he murmurs.

Cas’ gaze slips down to brush his mouth and he licks his own lips, but it returns a beat later.

“I know,” Cas says, low but unwavering, “I will not ask you to, not now. I brought you here to lessen your pain, not add to it.”

Dean’s pulse hammers in his throat.

“Tell me what to do,” Cas murmurs suddenly, like he desperately needs an answer. Like he’s been treading water all this time and just now thought to ask for a life preserver. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

Dean’s knees are starting to protest, so he struggles upright and gently tugs Cas with him. He leaves his hand where it rests on Cas’ forearm, giving it a squeeze.

“You’re doing it,” Dean assures softly. He needs Cas to believe this. “Being here, not pushing… You’re already helping.”

“I won’t presume to know what you went through,” Cas says, moving a fraction closer and curling his fingers around the hand Dean still hasn’t removed. “Michael and Lucifer are different beasts, I know, but I… I know how it feels to be an observer in your own body -- to watch as someone else commits atrocities in your visage. And for someone like you--”

Figurative feathers ruffling, Dean tries to step back. Cas lets him go, but doesn’t release his hand.

“Someone like me?”

“It was not an insult, Dean,” Cas laughs fondly. “You are a man who requires constant control -- of others, yes, but most often of yourself. Submission is not in your nature. I understand that being forced to bend under someone else’s will is difficult for you.”

They’re skating a dangerous ledge here. Submission is a touchy subject for Dean, always has been. And with how used up he feels, how raw and overexposed, he’s wary of looking too deep. But something in Cas’ eyes silently begs him to start digging.

“You’re right, submission was never an option for me, Cas,” Dean hears himself confess. “But most things that want me to, they don’t bother asking.”

Dean submitted to his father because he didn’t know he had a choice, not back then. Telling his father no meant defying a direct order, and Dean was moulded in the image of Daddy’s Perfect Little Soldier. Dissent was out of the question. So when he finally realized saying no was an option (thanks, Sammy), Dean took the revelation and ran. 

He submits now only when he wants to, and actively rebels against anyone who would even attempt to exert control over him against his will. The situations in which he willingly gives up control are rare, but they exist now where they couldn’t before.

Power and control have always been tangled up in Dean’s head, knotted in with his understanding of weakness and vulnerability. It’s a mess, one that he’s been running from most of his life. 

This Thing with Cas though -- it doesn't have to be a constant war for control. It doesn't have to be anything other than what it's always been. The realization is staggering.

Dean is staring into the mouth of his own destruction here, and he’s careening right toward it. He and Cas started running from each other more than a decade ago and never stopped. Now, in this moment, their ricochetting toward one another at the speed of light and Dean doesn’t know how to steer them off the collision course.

He never did.

They’ve drifted closer together, a mere breath between them, and he’s drowning again, but he finds he isn’t scared this time. Drowning under Cas’ waves is the polar opposite of drowning under Michael’s control and even though it’s terrifying, it’s also comforting in a weird way.

If this… culmination was inevitable, if part of Dean has recognized that all this time, then it feels like the destination they intended all along. Fuck Michael, fuck deeply ingrained self-hatred, fuck what anyone outside their family thinks.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, though. Not with… It could be different,” Dean says.

Cas' eyes widen as he sucks in a breath and Dean wonders if he understands. 

“How?” Cas asks, sincere and so, so willing. “How could it be different?”

There’s a moment, one they’ve had a billion times before. Dean feels like he’s holding his breath but his lungs are still moving air, his heartbeat a pounding baseline in his head. They’ve been here so many times, teetering on this razor’s edge, and he knows how this story ends.

He's ready to write a new chapter.

“Cas, do you trust me?”

Cas blinks. “Unconditionally.”

Dean moves slow -- slow enough that Cas can stop it if he wants to. Lifting a hand, he guides it to Cas’ hip and pins him firmly in place as he leans in. He holds Cas’ gaze until their lips are nearly brushing, uses his nose to nudge gently at Cas’ own. Cas gasps. Dean feels it in his toes.

“Dean?” 

“It’s okay, Cas,” he soothes through ragged breaths. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

Nothing has ever sounded better than the quiet murmur of approval Dean receives when he finally, finally captures Cas’ mouth with his own. Cas sinks into it easily, body pressing solid but pliant into the hard line of Dean’s chest until they’re plastered together from chest to thigh. Dean brings his free hand up to cup the base of Cas’ skull, pulling him closer still.

Dean always thought it would feel different, kissing Cas, and it does, just not in the way he assumed. 

He hasn’t kissed another guy since his father caught him and Ricky Desantos kissing in the shed when they were seven. Kissing a grown man was bound to feel different than kissing Ricky had back then, but Dean isn’t even thinking about that. 

He can’t think of anything beyond how natural it feels to be kissing Cas like this. He thought it might take them a while to find a comfortable rhythm in this regard, but it’s easy in the way their bond always has been.

When Cas licks at the seam of Dean’s lips, he groans deep in his throat but slowly breaks away. Cas’ confusion paints his features when Dean looks at him and he can’t help but laugh a little breathlessly.

“Have you always been this cute?” he asks.

“Yes,” Cas promptly answers, leaning in to steal a lingering kiss before he pulls back and asks, “Why did you stop?” like someone stole his guinea pig.

Dean laughs again, loud this time, and pushes his face into Cas’ neck. He’s hiding and they both know it, but Cas just smooths a hand in the small of his back and rubs calming circles.

“I just need to catch my breath,” Dean murmurs into the curve of Cas’ neck, lips brushing warm skin. “You’re really good at that.”

Dean’s insides are a mess and they hadn’t even used tongue. Just kissing Cas might fry his brain, but of all the ways he’s gone out, that sounds like the best one yet.

“I am really good at a multitude of things,” Cas says.

Just drops it out there like a bomb and walks away while Dean’s brain explodes. There’s a challenge in those words, one Dean is eager to meet, but it’s also just a simple statement of fact and that sends blood rushing south so fast he gets lightheaded.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, finally looking Cas in the eye again. “Anything I’d be interested in?”

“I am sure I have something of interest to you in my arsenal,” Cas replies, attention falling back to Dean’s mouth. “If not, perhaps you would be willing to give me some instruction.”

Mother of--

“Jesus.”

“I don’t think he would be interested,” Cas deadpans.

Dean plants a hard kiss to his lips and then jabs him in the hip with his knuckles, prodding Cas to move.

“Get your glorious ass in my car, Angel.”

Cas smirks but does what he’s told. Dean has to reach into his jeans to adjust the raging hard on digging into his zipper, but follows Cas into Baby’s backseat.

The world outside disappears once the door is closed behind him. Cas draws him in almost as soon as his knees hit the leather and Dean goes willingly, letting himself be manhandled onto his back. Cas crawls up between his bent knees, sealing their mouths together with a gritty sigh vibrating in his throat. Dean laps out first, sweeping his tongue along Cas’ bottom lip until he opens to the exploration.

They dissolve rapidly into a tangle of limbs and tongues, and even though the ashtray is stabbing him in the shoulder blades, Dean feels like he’s flying. Cas kisses like he’s literally breathing life. It’s deep and thorough, just the right side of dirty, and Dean’s hips buck so hard he hears Cas grunt when he hits his head.

“Sorry,” Dean laughs and sounds winded. 

Cas smiles a bone melting smile and Dean practically liquifies. But then Cas is tunneling fingers into Dean’s hair and pulling, dragging his head to one side and attacking his neck with his entire mouth, and Dean’s cock throbs it’s so hard.

“Fuck,” he grinds out, eyes closed tight, fingertips going white where they sink into Cas’ hips.

He’s gonna have a hickey in the morning, but it’s a much better decoration than the one Michael/Not!Kaia left him with, so Dean really doesn’t hate it.

“Cas, please tell me you’re sure about this,” he pants, already tugging Cas’ shirt from his slacks. 

His Angel goes still above him. He pulls away far enough that he can look down into Dean's eyes, devotion and honesty burning in azure pools.

“Dean, I have been sure of you, of this, since the very first moment I touched your soul in Hell,” he says.

If that isn’t a fucking declaration, Dean doesn’t know what is.

His eyes prick with heat but he reaches for Cas once more, hands skimming along his stubbled jaw and up into his hair.

“Come back and kiss me,” he demands.

They’re both naked before Dean really gives it any thought. He remembers sliding leather and clinking metal when he worked Cas’ belt open, but after that it’s all kind of a blur. It doesn’t matter, not really, but Dean vows to himself he’ll take his time their next go ‘round.

Cas’ body is a stark contrast to the chilly seat under Dean's back, with the heat radiating off his skin, and Dean can’t get close enough.

“Cas, please, just let me--”

Cas traps Dean’s wrist against his stomach, stopping the steady descent of his hand.

“If I find I need instruction, I will ask,” he says, voice stern, and Dean’s entire pelvis aches. He huffs out a gust of air that might be frustration, but Cas simply hikes one cocky brow down at him and grins. “Let me take care of you, Dean -- for once in our lives.”

Cas is asking him to submit, or Dean thinks he is, has convinced himself that’s what this means, but the expected surge of fear never follows. He isn’t afraid to give this to Cas, not like he was. Dean trusts that Cas will never use this against him, will never wield it as a weapon to inflict pain or shame or humiliation, and that’s enough.

He lets his limbs go loose and plaint, just barely maintaining the way his fingertips notch between the bumps of Cas' spine.

“Okay,” he says, sure but small. “You’re in charge this time, Cas.”

Cas dips down to kiss him warmly, then directs, “You will tell me if you don’t enjoy something.”

“Promise,” Dean says and means it.

Cas takes him apart slowly, right there in the Impala’s backseat. His movements are confident but worshipful as he unravels Dean, thread by ecstasy inducing thread. 

The slow drag of his tongue up the inside of Dean’s thigh leaves him shivering.

The bite and sting of Cas’ teeth at Dean’s nipples is soothed by the velvet slide of his mouth, making Dean arch and writhe beneath him. 

The slick, blunt press of his thumb at Dean’s rim makes him shout, but he nods when Cas looks to him for assurance and heat ignites in his belly when Cas’ finger sinks inside. Then Cas is mouthing at Dean’s pulsing length, breath humid and tongue like molten lava, and Dean can’t stop whining deep in his chest and rocking his hips into both sensations. 

When Dean comes, Cas’ name reverberates around the car’s cramped interior like a shot. Cas swallows and laps him clean, one torturous swipe of his tongue at a time.

Entire being suffused with boneless satisfaction, Dean fumbles a little when he pulls Cas back up, but manages to slot their lips together and get a fist around Cas’ leaking cock. He works Cas toward release with lazy, uneven strokes, and knows his Angel is close when he starts thrusting into Dean’s grip. The radio kicks on when Cas’ hips stutter and he spills between them, and it makes a laugh rumble out of Dean’s throat.

“Thanks for not blowing out the windows,” he teases.

Cas huffs his own laugh and collapses against Dean’s chest. “I do not wish to have my wings fried extra crispy, Dean.”

Dean smiles into the damp hair at Cas’ temple, pressing his lips to the thin skin there. 

“You’re my exception, Cas.”

He didn’t necessarily mean that the way it came out, but the sentiment behind it is true regardless. Castiel is the exception to every rule Dean ever set, and the relief he feels at not having to run from that anymore is visceral.

Cas seems to read him as easily as he ever did. He just lays a kiss over Dean’s anti-possession ward and snuggles closer.

They’re both asleep before the sun peeks over the horizon.

 

***

They wake up a handful of hours later. Dean is freezing. His bones ache from the awkwardness of their position, muscles tight and protesting every move. 

He shifts to try and soak up more of Cas’ body heat, shuddering when Cas snuffles out a damp sigh into the hollow of his throat.

“Your skin is like ice,” Cas grumbles unhappily, but he simply burrows deeper into Dean's neck and settles down again.

“That's because some idiot left the blanket outside,” Dean says gruffly, making every attempt to stop his teeth from chattering.

Cas sighs again, more burdened this time, but a second later the blanket is mojoed into existence around them, cocooning them in warmth.

“Pretty sure that's a violation of some Heavenly Rule,” Dean says, closing his eyes and inching around so that he and Cas are lying on their sides on the seat. His knees will hurt like a bitch when they finally straighten out, but Dean is too tired to even try to care.

He's nearly back to sleep when Cas’ voice pulls him up to the surface. Neither of them open their eyes. It's more intimate than Dean has been with anyone in a long, long time, and that includes what they'd just done.

“I'm glad you're back,” Cas says. “The bunker felt… empty, without you.”

Dean’s heart swells. His response is whispered into the wild thicket of Cas’ truly magnificent bedhead.

“I missed you too, Cas.”


End file.
